Sunday Scribblings: Organic

Pardon my tardiness. I was the weekend reporter, and didn’t have a chance to get this in the form I wanted before going to the office.

Adam’s Rib
The dream is always the same; he awakes, naked and fetal in an egg-shaped oval of wetness, surrounded by a sea of frost that covers speckled granite.
He stirs, stands - alert. A faint cold penetrates the soles of his heavy calloused feet. With fingertips, he traces the curved sinew of this body; the hardness of the muscles, the coarseness of the reddish hair that’s everywhere.
Fingertips reach for his lips; he closes these eyes, where in the low light of dusk, he picks out the surrounding lakeside, individual needles of the gently swaying pines.
With his index finger, he traces the ridge above these magnificent eyes, this boney protrusion, the solid eyebrow, thick as a wooly caterpillar.
He places his palms against these ears, slightly muffling all the sounds of the forest – the waves against the shoreline, the song of the trees, a hint of movement to the west.
His nostrils crinkle, flair as he takes in a deep lungful of air; it smells of fish from the brook, the sweetness of evergreen, dust, animal hide, hot blood.
He throws his arms back with his shoulders, curls his fingers into fists, raises his head to the moon-streaked sky and screams, guttural, animalistic.
His call is returned, higher-pitched, lyrical.
He drops to a crouch, fingertips on the cool granite for balance. Senses reeling, he huffs, screams again.
She breaks from the brush, hips sway as she places one careful, cautious foot in front of the other. She’s tall, sinewy; her raven hair spills across her shoulders, flies away from her face as she saunters.
She’s naked, too, less hair than he, and smells of wood smoke, sweat, something foreign, faintly sweet.
And he awakes to the now. In a tangle of sheets, damp with sweat. Two minutes before his alarm.
He runs a hand through receding hair, smacks chapped lips, reaches for a glass filled with tepid water. He drinks, thirstfully, water streams from the corners of his lips, soaks the pillowcase. Slowly, he swings his legs from bed, small aches start their whispering; soon some will elevate to shouts. He coughs, scratches his belly. His mouth tastes of last night’s drinks, the smoke-stained air of the bar.
He needs a hand against the wall to steady him as he rises, bladder full, aching.
He looks back at the clock.
He calculates the time it would take to get ready, shower, shave, dress, get to the office.
Balances that with the dream; a reaffirmation what it is to be human, natural – organic.

6 comments:

Jeff B said...

Great imagery. It causes me to wonder whether it was truly a dream or just wishful thinking that it was.

I enjoyed that.

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floreta said...

i think this is my favorite yet of yours. great descriptions. the last bit caught me by surprise! a good thing.

alister said...

Thom. This is far more refined, defined, smooth, linking, flowing than anything I’ve read of yours. Even the crudeness is a soft, lush forest, a beautiful portrayal. And the coming out of the dream, the sleep, is so tenderly cared for. Then it’s back to your toughness, which I love as well. You, too, seem more balanced than ever.

missalister

anthonynorth said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
anthonynorth said...

Nicely done. Great imagery. I deleted my first comment as I said we'd followed a similar theme this week, but I was thinking of the wrong post.
One of those days :-)